Author Archives: Sitting comfortably with andy daly

The Carbon Fibre’s in the Kitty Litter!

Posted on by
4

I know this is a bit of a specialist subject, but  lately I’ve become fascinated more than somewhat by the work of three pairs of British motorcycle  racing commentators, namely Julian Ryder and Toby Moody who cover Moto GP, Moto 2, and the 125 class, for British Eurosport. Jack Burnicle and former rider James Whitham who commentate on World and British Superbikes, also for British Eurosport; and Nigel Pearson with former England rider and ex-World Longtrack champion Kelvin Tatum, who cover the Speedway for Sky Sports.

 

 

 

(Moody, Ryder, Burnicle, Whitham, Pearson and Tatum)

So, what is it that makes them all so compelling? What common links exist between these six disparate characters, other than their habit of hanging around in twos at race venues? Obviously, as befitting of people in their position they are almost all completely immersed in the world of motorcycle competition – and in  particular their own areas of specialism in the sport, either as a former rider (Whitham, Tatum) or as serious enthusiast (possessor of  frighteningly comprehensive encyclopaedic knowledge, Ryder; highly articulate, often comically tongue-tied Moody, informed ‘giddy spectator’ Burnicle and Pearson, genial apologist for Speedway, everyone’s ‘Love it or loathe it’ sport)

I used to think commentators were superfluous – I think some still are. Dave Lanning, the voice of Speedway in the ’70s changed that. A good commentator, I feel should not be there simply to give you information, or explain; for example in the way  you might have to explain to those who have never attended or watched such an event before what is going on: especially when it means everyone who has is forced to hear it again and again. (Hope you’re reading this Tony Millard)  A good commentator should be in that place where audience and sportsperson meet; they should engage with the experience that their audience is having, develop and deepen it. This is what Lanning did. He knew the riders, the teams, the tracks, a ‘sufficient’ amount about the machinery to explain the reasons why riders did  the things they did and why events on the track took the turns they did. (No pun – honestly!- intended) with authority and humour. Watching speedway today, I sometimes find myself slipping into ‘Lanning-Speak’ as, distracted, I mentally commentate. (“Oh I say! What a fine piece of speedway!” “It doesn’t get much tighter than that, you could throw a handkerchief over all four of them” “He’s going out to the fence, he’s taking the high, wide and handsome route”)  

Do any of  my crop of six come close to the Big Man? Well let’s say they are at their best, when, like sharps of flint they crackle and spark off each  other with a vitality that the common herd can only watch and envy. Okay, maybe that’s going a bit far in some cases, but tune in to British Eurosport, or Sky Sports, catch this lot on form and you’ll see what I mean.

So, to business. My key areas of interest comprise:

  • PLOC
  • Background knowledge/Response to ‘On-Track’ events/Observational Skills
  • Favourite sayings and creativity in use of euphemisms for the word ‘Crash’

 My findings are attached below:

 

(On board chasing Moto GP traffic. Let’s face it, you’d have to be bloody nuts wouldn’t you?)

(Ben Spies: making some noise in his first season of Moto GP – I knew he would)

PLOC: (or to give its full title Point of Loss of Control) – usually with reference to voice, but may apply to bodily functions as well, this denotes a point in a race: a frantic start, a particular passing move, fierce tussle, spill, collision and so on which is momentous enough to cause our commentator to lose all self-control in relation to both his immediate environment (the commentary box, his partner and any guests) as well as his listeners/viewers: affects  the volume, tone, timbre of voice and its level of hysteria as evidenced in ‘breaking’, shouting, screaming and in one or two cases singing.

  • A particular feature of Moody’s work, where PLOC is often found to have been reached, before the end of the first sentence. For example at the start of practically every Moto GP. Toby’s voice shifts semi-tones, up and down mirroring the riders’ changes of gear. This is made even more entertaining if his commentary position leaves him unsighted and relying only on the local TV director’s footage. Toby gets more and more tongue-tied and frustrated as he is unable to see who is who, but continues regardless: …. and look! Casey Stoner’s made a BRIIIILLIANT start on the …(up semi-tone) oh! but he’s being OVERTAKEN by  who……? Now THHHHAAAAATTTS (up semi-tone) Capirosi. But No! It’s… ( down semi-tone ) NICKY HAYDEN … Loris Capirosi … (down semi-tone) as they go into the right hander (up semi-tone) But where’s Stoner? WE’VE LOST CASEY STONER! (up a whole tone) etc…

 

  • Ryder avoids the hysterics. He is the ‘Steady Hand’ to Moody’s emotional outbursts.  His main problems when excited are forgetting to breathe and using unfeasibly long sentences.

 

  • Nigel Pearson and KelvinTatum feature quite strongly here I am afraid. For example, Pearson continuing to shout in a most disagreeable manner, despite the finish of the particular race he is supposed to be commentating on: “WELL, HAVE WE GOT A MEETING NOW, OR WHAT, KELVIN TATUM?” I just wish he wouldn’t expend so much of his (apparently limitless) energy trying to convince us we’re watching great racing. I think we’ll be the judge of that, Ta.  If you want to get a better handle on what he sounds like, visit Pearson’s web homepage. It’s written exactly as he would speak/shout it! Priceless.

 

  • Tatum, too, is capable of allowing himself to rapidly spiral out of control, although he seems to take many of his cues from Pearson;  indeed, at times they will chorus in unison; for example, over a skilful piece ‘fence-scraping’  “Ohhhhhh! HOW did he do that?!” Nevertheless, he falls short of that daemonic, possessed quality that transforms Pearson from affable host to deranged nutcase: “IF YOU’RE SITTING AT HOME WITH PIZZA TAKEAWAY AND THE FOOD HAS GONE ALL OVER THE FLOOR DUE TO THE EXCITEMENT OF THAT RACE, PLEASE FORGIVE US!” Nonetheless, I do think it terribly endearing, however that Pearson and Tatum continue to model themselves on 70’s TV regulars, Fozzie Bear and Kermit. Next time you see the dynamic Sky Sports duo doing a discussion to camera, wearing their silly big headphones (What are they listening to: Deep Purple?) and nodding sagely in agreement at appropriate intervals, think Muppets.

 

 

  • Of the six, Burnicle and Whitham are probably the most restrained. In Whitham’s case, a riding career which saw him reach the heights of success, tempered by a catalogue of injuries that would make an orthopedic surgeon wince mean he has the ability to commentate with authority and experience. Add a touch of dry, gallows/paddock humour and he’s your man. Having been there, seen it, done it, he doesn’t tend to shout about it much. He finds more satisfaction teasing Burnicle, the enthusiast who comes across more like Whitham’s Dad. 

 

(The irrepressible Rossi. Doesn’t like hospitals! )

 

Background knowledge/Response to ‘On-Track’ events/Observational Skills

  •  Background knowledge I am happy to report is very good in all cases and in some excellent.

 

  • Jack Burnicle, for instance, can always be relied upon to give you that extra insight:  (Re: Colin Edwards, World Superbikes and his choice of tyres) “Colin  had a hard on in practice earlier, and I bet he wished he had a hard on now” and “Simon only weighs 63kg and most of that’s his ears!”

 (Casey Stoner)

  • Whitham: (My job) “is to get across the subtlties of what is happening, what strategies they might be evolving, what’s going on with the tyres and so on” In response to track action, the assured Whitham sometimes employs an elegant spoiling tactic. When something he has said is about to be contradicted by actual  events as they happen (to be fair, not very often):  He diverts attention away to another area of the race course ” Look, Jack  Now ah knew that were gunna ‘appen. I knew sooner or later someone were gunna open a Heineken umbrella on that bit o’ banking …. I mean … ” He wheelies over the line taking second place on the podium in this category.

 

  • Winning hands down, however is Ryder. He is eagle-eyed and has (seemingly at his fingertips) a mass of information about riders, and their pedigree, bikes, engines, teams, gossip, rumour, lap times, records and is able to – and this is where he scores trillions of points – put all this in context for the casual viewer. (Much to Moody’s frustration at times, I suspect) For example, as a result of watching coverage of free practice at the new Spanish Aragonese track, I now have a much more complete understanding of ‘wet’ tyre technology. It might not get me very far with the man on the Clapham omnibus, but if I ever find myself in the paddock on a wet raceday, I’ll be able to say: “Yeah! get the wets on, they’ll grip without compromising speed too much, Why? because … er … the heat … um … err … and the little bits … they squash … sort of … and …  Hang on a sec. I’ll just ask Jules”

 

(Going down the road)

  • In responding to on-track action, bear in mind that our six will know many of the riders personally. A close shave (or God forbid worse) for one or a number of  competitors elicit a uniform response, though these vary in their intensity and level of empathy depending on the circumstances. So we get:

“OOHHHHHHHHHHH!” (Ryder and Moody)

 “OOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHH!” (Pearson and Tatum)

 “OH NO! OOOOOOOHHH  AHHHHHHH  OOOOOOOOOOOH….!”  Poor Burnicle seems to feel every bump and scrape himself as riders come off and hit the hard asphalt or gravel traps: Then “Oh Leon, what have you done? You silly boy!   

Whitham is more matter of fact “I see what’s ‘appened,  he’s front-ended on braking, going int’ corner, so he’s hit the deck fast.  Aye, he’s moving across that tarmac, mind you he’s missed t’ kerb. Nah, he’ll be all reyt”

Tatum puts each spill under his ‘Pain Microscope’

“If we take a look at that again Nige you’ll see … Ohhhhh! Look at him getting thrown around like a rag-doll … and thump on his head! … And now the bike runs over him! That’s got to hurt. Let’s have another look …..”

 Favourite Sayings and creativity in use of euphemisms for the word ‘Crash’

  • Pearson insists on wishing stricken riders “All the very best” – Is it just me ? Isn’t that  the sort of thing you write on a Christmas Card?
  • Pearson: “Chris Louis in the pits there, and apologies if you heard one or two words which you may have found offensive”
  • Tatum: (Every week) “Y’know Nige, very often in the re-run it is not the rider who was leading the race when it was stopped who wins”
  • Tatum: “Well, Nige they’ve just not come to the races”
  • Ryder: “Valentino’s shoulder”
  • Whitham: “I knew that were gunna ‘appen.”

 Crash Pronunciation:/kraʃ/: collide violently with an obstacle or another vehicle. Not to be confused with a ‘Moment’ (When a rider almost comes to grief) Crashes are otherwise known as an ‘An Off’ ‘, ‘A Front/Back End’, Dropping It’, ‘High Side’ (When the machine bucks the rider off after going into a rear wheel slide),’Going Down The Road’  ‘Throwing the baby out with the bathwater’

but by far my favourite is from Toby Moody ‘The carbon fibre ‘s in the kitty litter!’

INTERACTIVE BIT!

Perhaps you’d like to add your own. (Incidentally, there is one ‘bogus’ in the above list. Can you spot it?)

So in conclusion, between them, in spite (or perhaps because of) their foibles, idiosyncracies, things they say that drive me nuts, I enjoy their company. After all, if  it gets too much, I just turn the sound down.

Closing note: The Spanish Aragon GP: King Juan Carlos presents winner Stoner with the trophy. Event sponsor’s logo given pride of place!

 

 

Links:

Moto GP

British Superbikes

World Superbikes

Elite League Speedway

Let me take you back to the dirtrack

James Whitham

KelvinTatum

Julian Ryder Twitter MotoGPJules

Toby Moody Twitter tobymoody

Jack Burnicle

Nigel Pearson ‘Take Away’ Quote: Jeff Scott ‘Showered in Shale’ Methanol Press 2006

This post is affectionately dedicated to those brave men who risk life and limb week after week at racetracks around the world for our enjoyment, namely Julian Ryder, Toby Moody, Jack Burnicle, James Whitham, Nigel Pearson and Kelvin Tatum

 © Andy Daly  2010

East Ward #4

Posted on by
1

We think he’s Armenian. That’s Capain Birdseye. I’m not sure. I’m convinced he was speaking in Spanish when he lunged towards me, hand going for my throat. This was when I was still on E-Bay before Jock the Junkie got swept off  into his very own room and I was billeted in the big bay at the end with (finally) some normal company.

I wasn’t frightened as this attempted assault on my person took place. In fact I was fairly sure I knew what it was all about. I was terribly dyskinetic: Lots of uncontrollable movement – almost a ‘fit’. You see the Doctors had been around earlier in the day and had me started on titrating doses of a new medication: Pramipexole a Dopamine Agonist, instead of the Rotigotine. It was only when the dyskinesias started to get really severe, that I figured out what was going wrong. Nobody in the team treating/observing me had thought about the need to readjust my doses of L-Dopa to allow for the more potent replacement.

It was a relief to have been able to rationalise what was going on, so I tailored my doses accordingly, made a note on my Observation sheet and began to brace myself for what seemed was going to be a rocky ride. I was begining to present a danger to shipping.

Enter the Captain. So named because he resembled Captain Birdseye. He was easy to spot. Apart from the grubby silvery, nicotine-stained beard, he had been fitted with a flourescent pink tabbard. The Captain had a tendency to ‘wander’. He’d only been there a day and they’d had to haul him back down off the High Street twice. His ‘high visibility’ tabbard was intended to curtail his meanderings; as was the six foot Nigerian nurse, who he seemed to be permanently fixed to.  I never did get a good look at what sort of device held her right and his left arm clamped together for the whole day. Could have been a chain I suppose. All I know is that at the moment he is dragging the nurse with him as he flies (well, not exactly … it’s more clumsy than that, and I’ve used ‘lunge/d’ once already. He lurches?)

Okay … he lurches at me. I had seen him getting more and more distressed by my violent flailing and so had prepared myself for ‘something’. I calmly avoided his lunge. He seemed to say in Spanish (though not as a native tongue)  ‘Va a morderse  la lengua’ (‘He’s going to bite his tongue’) I think he thought I was having an Epileptic fit, and in the received wisdom of days gone by, was attempting to stop me biting/swallowing my tongue. I Told him ‘No pasa nada, no te preocupes’ (‘It’s OK, don’t worry’)

‘I’m going to get out of the way’ I said to the Nurses: ‘I’m off to the day room’ and that is indeed where I went.

The dyskinesias lasted about another hour or so during which, nobody came to check on my condition. When I emerged, exhausted from the day room (10th floor with open window to boot) All seemed quiet.

Partly because Captain Birdseye had absconded again.

I need a drink. I wonder if Stig’s about?

© Andy Daly  2010

Postscript to ‘Getting a kick out of Picasso’

Posted on by
Reply

I’ve just been proof-reading ‘Getting a kick out of Picasso’ – Yes, I know you’re supposed to do it before you publish something, not a month and a half after (I never have the time …) When I remembered that it was on the eve of  a half term holiday, that the students were given their ‘slices’ of the ‘Three Dancers’ (carefully planned and cut to make it as difficult as possible to figure out what it was) and from which they were to make their own scaled up versions; accurate, in terms of proportion, colour, texture of paint. I’d already set them homework, and there were a couple of minutes left till the end of the lesson.

As a bit of a ‘throwaway’ remark, I said

‘I bet no-one can come back after half term and tell me exactly what these are …. If anyone can, I’ll give you ten merits (worth about £35 in today’s money on the school’s black market – and an unheard of amount to win at one go) Remember, they knew nothing about the project whatsoever yet. Picasso’s name hadn’t been mentioned, nor the ‘C’ word (‘Cubism’) They hadn’t even had time to figure out that they actually joined together.

‘The only clue I will give you is the word Pimlico’

Well, bugger me, if only halfway through the week after the holiday, and before his Art lesson which was on a Friday I am sought out by one of the class members; a delightful lad by the name of Robert Fone. (Real name, don’t think he’ll mind) 

Story was that at a loose end over the half term, he turned to the ‘optional homework throwaway thingy’ (Nowadays, of course, it would be called an ‘Extension Task’) It didn’t take long for Robert to work out by consulting some of his friends that some (all?) of the pieces joined together. He visited his local library (Again, this was before the age of high-speed Broadband Internet access to this, that and the other) Eventually, Rob came across an image which seemed to connect with colours and shapes on his section, as well as those of his mates. What was it? Who was it by? –  Time to enlist the help of Dad – a postman.

‘Dad what’s at Pimlico that might have something to do with Art?’

‘That what? … that might have something to do with Art? … Well I dunno, son. Let me finish this and we’ll have a look in the ‘A to Z”

Which they did; and sure enough, finally spotted the Tate.

‘That’s got to be it!’ So they set off bright and early the next morning – which they needn’t have bothered doing since the Tate doesn’t open till 10am – armed only with Rob’s sliver of the picture and the suspicion that it involved Picasso.

In a wonderful dénouement, after some time, they found what they thought to be the painting and sat in front of it as Rob took out his slice and his notes from the library. Both of them, tired with ‘gallery legs’  looked for corroboration in the cobalt/cerulean blues, contorted and distorted shapes before them. And sure enough, there it was. Fitting indeed that the ‘moment of realisation’ happened in the gallery in front of the work.

‘Sir! I know what it is! … I’ve got it!’

Well, I’m going to keep my distance if you don’t mind Rob, cause whatever it is you’ve  got I don’t want to catch it’

‘No, no, no I mean …. (Actually this all for comic effect. Rob, bless him, was very quietly spoken and unassuming) So it was almost apologetically that he told me the cut-up picture was called ‘The Three Dancers’ painted in 1925 by Pablo Ruiz Picasso (1881 – 1973), measuring 215.3 x 142.2 cm and that it hangs it the Tate Gallery near Pimlico.

‘The largest and most important piece by the artist in the Tate, it fully justifies the epithet ‘masterpiece’ and as such, lays a claim to being the greatest work in the collection; which owing to its fragile condition, it is unlikely to ever leave’ said Richard Calvocoressi.

Ahhh, yes. If only you knew, Richard. If only you knew, mate …

And my pocket was lighter to the tune of 10 merits.

His Head of Year saw me:

‘Ah, Mr. Daly, Is it true you gave Robert ….’

© Andy Daly  2010

East Ward #3

Posted on by
Reply

Chapter 3

I didn’t know where I was when I awoke. Somewhere vaguely unhealthy. A skip possibly, off the Caledonian Road? A  rasping voice, seemingly at my ear.

‘Nooooo, I dinnae want th’ methodone. It’s nae fuckin’ strong enough’ (In a Glasweigian accent – in case you weren’t sure)

Yup, Caledonian Road it is. But wait, a patient, calm voice. Possibly a junior doctor:

‘Look, you won’t be getting anything if I can’t get this line in’

‘Nooooo! Ahhhhhh! Ye bastarrrd!’

Patient, calm voice:

‘Okay, now just lay still for me a …’

‘Aaaahhhhhhh! …. Fuck!’

Patient, calm voice, getting irritable now:

‘Look! What Am I supposed to do, You’ve got no…’

‘Shhhhhhh!’ (I’m not sure whether this came from other patients or the nurses, unable to hear each other as they chattered at the Nurses’ station.)

(Almost hysterical whisper) ‘You‘ve got no veins I can get into. We’re going to have to call someone else’

‘Well tell ‘em I don’t want th’ methodone, I….

And so it went on.

During the night, unbeknown to me as I slept soundly for nearly a whole hour, the newcomer – my companion to the left – was wheeled in. I was not in a skip off the Caledonian Road. No, I was in the East Ward and the time was – I glanced down at my watch. I’d bought it a couple of days earlier. It boasted a digital and traditional mode, neither of which I could read, so I pressed the nightlight button. A pathetic watery orange glow slowly emanated from somewhere under the watch glass. It actually made the face darker. ‘Brilliant’ I stretched my neck out to catch a glimpse of the bay clock. 3:35am. ‘Brilliant#2’

And so it went on.

Patient, calm voice finally lost it, and in came someone else.

‘My, your arms are in a mess, I’m going to….’

Ahhhhhh! Tell hum I dinnae want the methodo …etc

They went as far as the Assistant Registrar, who finally after a marathon of whispering, shouting, profanities and one imagines medical procedures right on the limit of tolerance; finally gets a line in. I miss this, as exhausted I doze off about 6:15 …Just in time to get fifteen minutes shut-eye before at 6:30, windows are flung open (the lights have been on all night anyway) and the nurses start their rounds, checking that everyone is still alive and if so, taking their blood pressure.

What was it the irrepressible World Champion motorcyclist, Valentino Rossi said about hospitals recently? He’d crashed during practice at Mugello (June 2010) the result being a compound fracture of his right leg. He said he hated hospital because it was there that you woke up to the snores, coughs and farts of men you’ve never met before. Indeed. It was enough of a shock that he was back on his Yamaha competing within 6 weeks of his injury. If ever there was an incentive to get out.

My Scots companion was now bright and breezy, ready to chat (or more accurately talk at) anyone willing to listen. After the night he’d given us: no way. I dipped under the covers and studiously avoided him for the rest of the day. Conscious of the negative impact that the stereotypical treatment of characters can reinforce, I nicknamed him Jock. I liked the alliteration in Jock the Junkie. Bastard.

Captain Birdseye, however was a completely different kettle of fish….

© Andy Daly  2010

Clive Jarvis

Posted on by
1

 

I am not a teacher, but an awakener.

Robert Frost

East Ward #2

Posted on by
Reply

Chapter 2

I have been admitted for observation. Well that’s interesting, because I don’t know where they are doing it from. Maybe from a tiny hole in the ceiling above my bed. It certainly isn’t being done as a matter of course by the nursing staff, who seem a bit bemused by my presence. In fact, I sneak a look at the ‘Observation sheets’ only to find them incomplete and incorrectly filled in. But wait: I’m getting ahead of myself here.

I have been admitted for observation by my Neurologist after spending a miserable summer fighting to adapt to a new drug: Rotigotine (or ‘Neupro’, a non-ergoline dopamine agonist formulated as a once-daily transdermal patch which provides a slow and constant supply of the drug over the course of 24 hours, for those of you who are interested in that kind of thing) For it to have any impact, I was having to wear patches the size of your average single duvet. They made me nauseous and left painful red weals on the skin, such that you weren’t supposed to use the same area of the body more than once a fortnight. Now then. Take away the head, chest, midriff, hands and feet which were also ‘no go’ areas and you’re left with? Well, you’re left with the fact that dripping wet I weigh about 9 stone (57.15kg in Euros) I didn’t have enough skin! None of which was fully appreciated by the consultant concerned as at no point during the whole pitiful saga was I examined. Indeed all our calls and correspondence to the hospital in question were fielded by another (junior) member of staff. Meanwhile, I was spending hours  a day in a near catatonic state, trying to make light of it to the kids – being as upbeat as possible (Of my waking day, more time was spent like this than with any degree of mobility.) Anyway, cut a long story short, I’ve wound up in here to ‘iron out’  the problems with my medication.

I arrive promptly on the Monday morning (A miracle! Once punctilious to the point of obsession, these days it’s a case of  ‘Give me a window of about 3 days and I’ll see what I can do…’) I find my way to the ward via main desk and lifts and am shown to a bed.

Sometime later – I have lost track of time and dozed off I think, a waspish Filipino Ward Sister comes to take my details. This is a painful procedure as although we appear to be talking the same language, we are both hearing something quite different. That hurdle finally surmounted, I am left to my own devices – for the rest of the day. No one comes to tell me what the plan for the day was, where I should go, stay; what I should do etc….

In fact, this Ward Sister was to provide endless amusement as the week wore on, doing the pre- op checks on unwitting and skittery patients. It took me a while to decipher what she was actually saying, but it was worth the effort.

Example: heard issuing from behind curtains on my second morning –

“Okay, you okay? I take your details … You gadanny medalinyabaddy?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Medal? You gadanny medalinyabaddy?’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t …’

‘Any medal inside, before?’

(Have you got any metal in your body? ie. implants, plates, screws etc)

‘You gottadrawen? …. Your harm … ‘You gottadrawen?

‘What??’

(Have they – the surgeons – done a drawing (ie made a mark to indicate which) on your arm?)

Priceless was the look of complete incomprehension on patients’ faces as, interrogation over, the curtains were drawn back and once more they joined fellow inmates …

… who were to include the Junkie, who first woke me up in the early hours of my second day.

© Andy Daly  2010

East Ward #1

Posted on by
Reply

Chapter One

It is 1:15 am. The sublime sound of Phyllis Hyman’s ‘You know how to love me’  fills my head as I lose myself to its pumping beat and intoxicating rhythm. Through my half open eyes I can see a myriad lights sway and swim. Feeling the cool floor beneath my feet, I dance like there will be no tomorrow. Where? The Gardening Club, Covent Garden? Deep Funk at madame JoJo’s? The Wag? I stop and take a swig from a bottle of water. The lights in question are those of West London. I can see them all the way out to Heathrow, for I am high up on the tenth floor.

Welcome to East Ward, the Neurology/Surgical Assessment Unit, at a well-known (No, I’m not going to name it!) London Hospital. My ‘dance floor’ is otherwise known as the ‘Day Room’. I am the only patient who seems to use it during the day, largely because I cannot bear the company of my fellow inmates, ‘Jock the Junkie’ and ‘Captain Birdseye’ who arrived during my first night and second morning here, respectively. As a consequence of a painful hour spent here with the pair of them earlier in the week, I now blag the Day Room for my own exclusive use in the evenings by removing the batteries from its TV remote control after first selecting channel 5. Jock and the Captain soon tire and this leaves me a good three hours to watch TV and try to ‘shake off’ the maddening diskynesias; the uncontrollable, jerky movements characteristic of long-term Leva-Dopa use by those with Parkinson’s. Leva-Dopa (or L-Dopa as it is sometimes known) is prescribed to replace the missing Dopamine: the Brain’s chemical ‘messenger’. A very effective drug, it is unfortunately notoriously difficult to get  to reach its target, as the body, in addition to any protein at loose in the system, will quickly break it down. My Neurologist once compared it to putting rocket fuel in a car. Diskynesias happen when there is a surplus, which ends up sloshing around the central nervous system, causing the body and limbs to go here and there. Somehow I  found that dancing (in an embarrassing ‘all-action’ wedding-Dad style) to Disco, Soul, Funk and Punk helps a bit to soak it up.

And so here I am. 1:30am. I’d better get a move-on and clear off. The nurses have first shout on the room from 1:30 am onwards. As from then, each night, there is a certain amount of furniture-moving goes on – It seems, to prevent entry as they bed down inside to sleep or otherwise – I’m not sure; I don’t really wish to know; waking me as they leave at about 4 am.

Of course by then, I am safely tucked up in bed in my room with Jock, the Captain and his ‘minder’. The ward is organised into a series of small rooms or bays, some are general purpose, like this one; others high dependency. The bays are identified by letter.

It goes without saying that I am on E-Bay.

© Andy Daly  2010

You can stand under my umbrella -ella -ella ay ay ay ….

Posted on by
Reply

I thought you might enjoy this little nugget I heard during the summer.

Long, long ago before Peters had met Lee and life was a lot more simple. There lived  in Alcoy, near Alicante, Spain a woman who was very simple. A nutty Great Aunt from my Mother-in-laws side of the family, she was well known for taking to the streets  ‘sin ropa’ or ‘in the buff’ as we might say here – Well it can get very hot during the summer months in Alcoy.

However, her favourite trick, apparently was to – ‘hem! How can I put this? …  ‘do her business’  in peoples’ furled umbrellas. Presumably, she opened them up first to allow sufficient access, then closed them for the unwary owner; who when the heavens opened, found it rained more than cats and dogs!

I reckon she wasn’t as ‘mad’ as they made out.

© Andy Daly  2010

Parents’ Evening with Mr.Yong

Posted on by
2

Okay, here we go …. You know the thing I hate the most as a parent at my own childrens’ parents’ evenings?

When you are greeted, sit down and the teacher then runs his/her fingers down the list of class names until they find ours … or someone who looks a bit like ours and is at about the same level, They then proceed to read me out a list of meaningless marks, grades, assessments, smart targets and other such spurious data, all of which serve to confirm the fact that a bit more time getting to ‘know’ the students (by teaching them not assessing them ad infinitum) would be well spent. Also, and this really pisses me off, when you have been met, greeted and sat down and the teacher looks across at our dear little one and coos “Well, how do You think you are getting on…..” Both are scenarios which say to me as parent: You (the teacher) are not prepared for this interview or you don’t know my child  sufficiently well enough to tell me in a nutshell about his progress or lack of. And why is this such a bitter pill to swallow Dear Reader? Because I’ve been there myself. In my final miserable months before Parkinson’s bloody ‘Shaking Palsy’ forced me out of the classroom and into oblivion; treading water for dear life, I confess to being guilty of same. Pot calling the kettle black. However, in happier times …

… Parents’ evenings could be a pain after a long day in the classroom, but generally, I enjoyed doing them. After being at a school for as long as I had, or having been in the area for so long, you got to know parents and families very well, and this, I loved.

 One of the most memorable meetings was with the parents of a terrific girl I taught called Elaine. She’d managed (poor girl) as luck (or fate) would have it to wind up in my class every year. On this particular occasion, it was the Parents’ Evening just prior to GCSE examinations starting and the students’ handing in of option choices for the Sixth Form and A Level. Elaine’s parents seemed to me like Chalk and Cheese. From Malaysia, Dad came across as assertive and I sometimes felt a bit  used to getting his own way, while mum was petite, demure and sometimes appeared, although nodding her head vigorously, to have lost the thread of the conversation. In previous years, Dad had let Mum do all he speaking. He just let it be known every now and then with a look or a comment, that he did not value the Arts, and wanted Elaine (who was very bright – a very sharp Mathematician) to do Maths and Sciences at A Level.

Well, it comes upon Year 11 Parents’ Evening. Elaine has already warned me that Dad is on the ‘warpath’ because she’s chosen Art and Design as one of her A levels. I am sitting at my desk (on the school stage for some bizarre reason) and along come Elaine’s parents. Even before any pleasantries can begin, Elaine’s Dad has fired the first salvo “Ah misser Daly, so YOU’RE the man who’s responsible for making my daughter wanna do Art. Explain yourself” (I swear this is how the meeting began!)

Well; as he is saying this, he makes with his fist as if to bang the table on the words: ‘you’re’, ‘responsible’, ‘Art’ and ‘explain’ – although he doesn’t actually make contact. However, I notice that as he does this, his wife’s eyebrows arch up, almost jumping off the top of her forehead. It’s as if there’s a fine piece of filament attached from one to the other: Down goes the fist, up go the eyebrows.

At one point, I said something along the lines that

 “Elaine’s an intelligent girl, she knows her own mind. In fact, I haven’t persuaded her to do anything. It’s something I actively avoid doing. I give them some ideas about the pros and cons,then it’s up to them….”

‘Hrrmph!’ (down went the fist, up went Mrs Yong’s eyebrows) ‘And what’s Elaine gonna do with this Art anyway? Make pictures? Who’s gonna buy them? She’s never gonna make any money. She’s gonna be poor. She’s bloody good at Maths and Science, so why you gotta persuade her with this Art? ‘(fist/eyebrows)

‘She doesn’t have to be poor …

… ‘Look at the amount of revenue generated by the Creative Industries for this country every year, the backbone of which is Art and Design. Yes, she could be a poor, struggling artist in her garret as popular myth would have us believe, but she’s more likely to be a well-paid member of one or other of this country’s highly successful design disciplines: Graphic Design, Fashion Design, Textile Design, Interior design, Product Design, Industrial Design, or working in Design management, Photography, Film, Television, Media”….and so it went on. He tested me (‘and what if …?’ ‘Suppose that … ?’ ‘What would …?’)  and wanted concrete examples –

Luckily I was well prepared.

Finally, he sat back in his chair (‘Phhew!’ went Mrs Yong’s eyebrows)

‘OK,You convince me. But if she messes up I’ll come back and I see you good’ He said with a ‘mock scowl’

Well, another two years fly by, and it comes upon Elaine’s final A Level show. Her coursework and Exam pieces are displayed on the wall. Alongside is her Personal Study,  A mature and intelligent analysis, authoritative and insightful on the work of artists Gilbert and George. I am nervous to say the least!

 By and by I relax, and sure enough, among the very welcome visitors are Mr and Mrs Yong, Elaine’s sister, Tammy and boyfriend.  They go to see Elaine’s exhibition, then generously give their time to visit each of the other shows in turn. Before he leaves, Mr Yong makes a point of coming up to me, to shake me vigorously by the hand and thank me and my colleague. ‘Now I understand, now I understand’ He was knocked out. Elaine is now a successful graphic Designer and, before I retired, Dad used to pop in and visit from time to time, to see how ‘His Favourite Art Teacher’ was doing! ….

I made many friends and had many a laugh on those noisy, tiring yet strangely euphoric evenings. ‘Thank you’, and ‘Thank You’ especially, Mr. Yong.

© Andy Daly  2010

See the Sunrise with me …

Posted on by
2

   I thought you might like to see the sunrise with me….                                    

 

 

  

  

 

   

  

Fishermen on the sea wall where we spend our summers, just south of Valencia, Spain – You didn’t believe all that crap about the ‘Bloggers’ Jamboree’ did you? Tut tut!

Images © Andy Daly  2010